


I Want You Close (I Want You)

by colonel_bastard



Series: Lodestar [1]
Category: Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: Crushes, Cybernetics, Dirty Thoughts, Drinking, Head Shaving, Intimacy, M/M, Nervousness, Shaving, Size Difference, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been out in space for weeks, maybe months, and Jim's undercut is starting to grow out.  Silver notices and offers to take care of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You Close (I Want You)

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pick-me-up for my pal [wuffen](http://wuffen.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> I just wanted these idiots to drink too much rum and sit too close and agonize over their respective crushes on each other. And of course the perfect song for those delicious encounters is Tegan and Sara's [Closer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9e9NSMY8QiQ): _all I want to get is / a little bit closer / all I wanna know is / can you come a little closer?_
> 
> Jim thinks he's the only one acting like an awkward teenager. Spoiler: he's not.

-

-

-

Jim has been on his guard for so long that he almost jumps out of his skin when it happens. Someone touches the back of his head, out of the blue, while he’s in the middle of swabbing the deck. It’s like being tapped with an exposed wire, his heart rate skyrocketing, his nerves screeching in protest, and Jim whirls around with a pre-emptive confrontational snarl on his face. To his amazement he sees John Silver, laughing and holding his hands up in deferential submission. 

“My apologies, Jimbo,” he chuckles. “Didn’t mean to give ye a fright just now.” 

“You didn’t scare me,” Jim retorts automatically, ignoring the fact that instead of slowing down, his heart rate just got even faster. “What do you want?”

“Don’t want nothing,” Silver shrugs. “Just saw that ye’re getting a bit of a scruff back there, is all.” 

Immediately self-conscious, Jim reaches back and rubs a hand against the nape of his neck. Shit, since when did his hair get so long? He’s lost track of how long they’ve been in space. Weeks, certainly— maybe even months? He’s not certain. What _is_ certain is the fact that his usual undercut has definitely started to get shaggy in the back. Jim hadn’t even noticed. 

_Silver noticed,_ that stupid little voice in the corner of his mind whispers. Jim kicks that stupid little voice in the face and tells it to be quiet. 

“Guess so,” he says with a shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

“Did ye want me to take care of that for ye?”

Somehow Jim manages not to trip over his own mop.

“What?” he blurts out. “Take care of what?”

Silver indicates his hair with a loose flick of his hand. “That scruff a’yours. Get ye cleaned up and set to rights.”

Jim’s knuckles are suddenly turning white on the mop handle. “Uh... sure. Whatever. If you have time.” 

“For you, lad, I’ll make the time.” 

And Silver winks, he fucking _winks,_ leaving Jim to once again wonder if Silver knows what he’s doing or if he’s totally oblivious to the effect he has on his cabin boy.

\- - -

It’s a rare luxury, but as the ship’s cook, Silver has his own sleeping quarters. It’s not really a _room_ — more like a glorified closet— but it’s got a bed and a chair and a lantern swinging overhead and that’s all they need for now. Silver tells him to come down once he’s finished with his latest round of dishwashing. Jim washes those dishes so fast he’s amazed he doesn’t hear a sonic boom.

Once he gets there, however, he hesitates. Jim has never been invited in here before. He lingers in the doorway, nervously waiting for permission to enter. When Silver notices him he laughs and bows, gesturing towards the tiny room like a grand lord inviting a king into his castle. 

“Come on in, lad,” he says. “Welcome to me humble abode.” 

As soon as Jim crosses the threshold he’s overwhelmed with the presence of Silver, the smell of him concentrated in the stale air, the size of him dominating the cramped space. It’s definitely a good kind of overwhelmed. Silver’s coat and hat are hanging on pegs by the door, leaving the big man in his shirtsleeves and bandana, out of habit and at ease with a towel slung haphazardly over one burly shoulder. Jim feels lucky. He knows that not everyone on the ship gets to see him like this. Silver likes to put on a show for people, all big talk and tall tales, so that in a crowd he always has to be the center of attention. When it’s just him and Jim, though— as it so often is, the two of them alone in the galley— he doesn’t seem to be trying so hard. Sometimes they’ll go hours without saying a word to each other, just working side by side, Silver cooking and Jim cleaning up after him. Jim likes those times the best. 

There’s a small table in the corner of the room, and on it Jim sees a bowl of water, a bar of soap, and a sizable mug of grog. Silver picks up the last one and belts back a mouthful, then holds it out in offering.

“Care for a swig, Jimbo?”

Surprised and pleased, Jim accepts the stein with both hands and takes a sip. It’s strong, much stronger than the stuff that gets rationed out to the rest of the crew. Of course, the ship’s cook is the one in charge of mixing the rum and water; small wonder that this particular batch should contain far more of the former than the latter. Jim feels it in his throat and sinuses, a delightful sting that actually helps take the edge off some of his nervousness. He takes another big draw before handing the drink back to its owner. 

“So the pup can hold his own,” Silver observes, visibly impressed with Jim’s failure to wince or cough at the hard alcohol. 

_I broke into my mom’s liquor cabinet when I was twelve,_ Jim almost says, then catches himself. 

“I can take it if you can,” he says instead, which might be even _worse_. 

He cringes, expecting Silver to laugh at him for such an audacious claim. Instead the big man just smiles, shakes his head, and says, “Ye’re full of surprises, aren’t ye, lad?” Jim has to fight to keep the dopey grin off his face. 

“A’right,” Silver announces. “Let’s get ye settled, then.”

He drags the little table over within reach and then sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, the old wood groaning in protest at his considerable weight. Taking the towel from his shoulder, he lays it carefully across his right thigh. Then he indicates the chair in the opposite corner. 

“Bring that over here, will ya?”

Jim does as he’s told, tipping the chair up on two legs and hauling it across the short distance between them, setting it down again with its back facing the bed. Stirring the air with his cybernetic index finger, Silver signals that he should turn the chair around instead.

“Go on,” he says. “Have a seat. Nice and close, now.” 

You know, Jim wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he was getting into when he came down here, but it just became abundantly clear that he’s in way over his head. Too late now. Feigning as much nonchalance as he can muster, he swings his leg over the seat and comes down in a straddle, his chest flush against the back of the chair. He almost jumps when Silver’s organic hand settles around his waist, firm but insistent. 

“Closer, Jimbo,” he rumbles, tugging him backwards. 

Jim uses his heels to scoot the chair back a few inches, stopping when he bumps up against something solid. He thinks that he’s collided with the edge of the bed, but when Silver leans forward, Jim realizes that he’s backed all the way up against the big man’s belly, the chair tucked into the space between his open legs. 

Fuck. 

“So, uh,” Jim says, forcing his voice to remain level. “Think I could have another drink?”

“Sure thing,” Silver agrees.

Without thinking, he leans even farther forward to reach the stein, and all at once his full weight is pressed against Jim’s back, crushing him against the back of the chair. It shoves the air out of his lungs like a kick to the gut, his breath abruptly ejected in a strangled grunt, his eyes going wide and watering. In the next instant Silver has jerked back upright again. 

“Whoa, there!” he exclaims. “Ah, blast me, what a dunce!”

Jim sucks in a huge, relieved breath while Silver’s organic hand settles anxiously over the span of his shoulders. The touch is strangely hesitant, as though Silver is afraid of harming him further. 

“I’m sorry, lad,” he mumbles, clearly embarrassed. “Some folks don’t know their own strength, but only a fool don’t know his own size.”

“It’s fine,” Jim coughs. “I’m fine.” 

He’s _certainly_ not about to admit how much he enjoyed that just now. Nope. No way. Still, he doesn’t want Silver to feel too bad about one careless mistake, so he turns around in his seat to show him that he’s not angry. 

“Forget it,” he says. “I’m tough. I bounce back.”

Silver gives him that fond, familiar smile. They’re close enough now that Jim can smell the rum on his breath, so heavy and strong that it’s obvious this isn’t the first serving of grog he’s had tonight. That would explain why he was so clumsy just now, anyway. It’s funny, but Silver doesn’t usually drink like this, not unless he’s with the whole crew, getting rowdy and swapping stories in the mess. Silver once remarked that the only good reasons to drink are to loosen your tongue or steel your nerves. 

_So why did he get drunk before Jim came to his cabin?_

Jim smothers the stupid little voice and comes up with a million excuses. Of course Silver’s been drinking, he’s off duty, he has every right to relax and unwind in the privacy of his own quarters. He probably does this all the time, and Jim never sees it because Silver only indulges after he’s managed to get rid of Jim for the night, free to finally have some time for himself. That’s gotta be it. Jim can’t let himself hope for anything other than that. 

Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. He accepts the stein and raises it for a toast, laughing when Silver taps his cybernetic fist against it in response. Jim drinks deep. The burn feels good. He hands the mug back to Silver, who takes another sizable swig before reaching out to set it down again. 

“Here,” Jim says, taking it from him. “Better let me.” 

“Cheeky,” Silver smirks, but he lets him do it anyway. 

Now there’s nothing left to do but get to work. Jim settles back in his place, more relaxed now, more at ease, even with Silver looming behind him. He turns obediently when Silver gestures towards the soap and water. 

“Since ye’ve got such a fine pair of hands there,” Silver says. “I figured ye wouldn’t mind doing the lather yerself.” 

“Sure, sure, I get it,” Jim sighs in mock-annoyance. “Putting me to work again. What, am I gonna be your cabin boy forever?”

“Always,” Silver replies, and Jim shivers at the way he says it. 

Not trusting himself with a comeback, he just takes up the bar of soap and dips it into the bowl of water, working it between his palms to coax out the suds. Halfway through he realizes that Silver is staring at him. Scratch that— he’s staring at the rubbing motion of Jim’s hands going back and forth on the bar. Jim must not hold his rum as well as he thought, because all of a sudden he decides it would be a _great_ idea to put on a show. 

It’s nothing overt, of course. He just takes his time with it, his fingers curling, switching up his tempo from fast and rough to slow and sweet. Silver makes no comment on the matter, but his breathing becomes so careful and steady that it must surely be a concentrated effort. _He likes it,_ the stupid little voice cheers, and Jim can’t bring himself to shut it up this time because he really wants it to be true. 

It can’t last forever. At a certain point his hands are so full of foam that it would be suspicious if he didn’t stop, so he regretfully slows down until he’s still again.

“Okay,” he says. “Now what?”

Silver shudders and clears his throat like he’s coming out of a trance. 

“Right. Now. We’ll be working together on this, Jimbo, bit by bit. Ye’ll be putting down the lather and I’ll be clearing it away.” 

“Makes sense,” Jim says. “But where’s the razor?” 

_Whirr, click_ — and a shiver rushes down Jim’s spine as Silver reaches around to display a gleaming blade where his cybernetic right hand used to be. 

_Wow okay no sure this is fine it’s fine._

“Cool,” Jim says weakly. 

“Sharpened it this morning,” Silver boasts. “Ye could shave a spider’s arse with it, ye could.” 

Emboldened, Jim juts his elbow back into Silver’s belly and teases, “Should we get Scroop down here for a demonstration?”

Silver roars with laughter and Jim can feel it in every inch of his body, Silver’s mirth shaking him like a hurricane. God it feels good. Jim leans back into it and hopes that Silver doesn’t notice, or if he does, that he doesn’t mind. 

“Oh, aye,” Silver chortles, swiping tears from his good eye with his thumb. “Let’s call for the ol’ bug-brain and see if he’ll oblige yer curiosity.” 

“Uh, no thanks,” Jim laughs, and he only _just_ manages to to keep himself from blabbing on with _he’s not the crewman I want to see with his pants off._

_Oh my God Scroop doesn’t even **wear** pants fuck fuck **fuck** what is **wrong with me?**_

He can’t figure out if that rum was a good idea or a really bad one. 

“A’right, a’right,” Silver snickers. “Let’s get a move on a’fore all yer suds dry out.” 

“Waiting on you, old man,” Jim replies.

He’s not ready. He is _not_ ready for Silver’s organic hand to suddenly cup the back of his neck, large and heavy and warm. He’s not ready for that hand to slide up along the side of his head, gathering the length of his hair and pushing it up and over, laying the right side of his skull bare. Silver applies a slight amount of pressure, just enough to encourage Jim to tilt his neck to the left. Then he leaves his hand on the top of Jim’s head, holding the hair out of his way. Jim has to remind himself to keep breathing. 

“Get some lather on there, now,” Silver instructs, his voice right next to Jim’s ear. 

Jim scoops a handful of foam off the bar of soap and reaches up to coat it over the intended area, feeling around blind, taking heed of Silver’s murmured directions to make sure he gets it everywhere it needs to be. Then he drops the soap back in the bowl and grabs onto the back of the chair with a sudsy death grip.

“Hold still, Jimbo,” Silver advises; an unnecessary precaution, since Jim is petrified right down to his bones. 

The first stroke of the blade is whisper-smooth, starting at Jim’s temple and sweeping back, carving a clean, easy line through the lather. Jim exhales as Silver reaches down to wipe the makeshift razor on the towel across his thigh, and as the soap bubbles burst and fade, he sees the scattering of bristly little hairs that get left behind. 

_He’s shaving me,_ he thinks stupidly. _He’s really shaving me._

Silver works slow, as gentle and cautious as if he were shaving an egg. He may well have a significant amount of rum in his system, but his hands are steady and sure and it never even occurs to Jim that someone else in this situation might feel afraid. He doesn’t have room inside of him to feel anything except _thrilled_ right now, his heart going double-time, his neck starting to ache from supporting the weight of Silver’s hand. Silver hums as he goes, a deep rumble that reverberates in Jim’s spine to the tune of some old space shanty from days gone by. Jim feels dizzy. Must be the grog.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he says, just for the sake of speaking. 

“I’ve had me share of practice,” Silver murmurs absently. 

“Yeah?”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Silver swipes the blade across his thigh to clean it. “Had to keep meself all shaved down when I got these gears.” He taps the whirring apparatus on the side of his skull. “Didn’t want no bristles growing in the seams while it was healin’ up, did I? Rough enough already without a thing like that.” He chuckles and reaches up to graze another stretch of Jim’s head. “Had to learn fast how to use this rig, that’s fer sure. I’m no good with me left for work like this.” 

Jim looks down at his two good hands on the back of the chair and marvels at how lucky he suddenly feels to have them. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Silver speak so candidly about his prostheses before. The cybernetics have become so natural to him that it’s easy, too easy to forget that Silver wasn’t born this way. One of these days Jim is going to ask him how it happened. Just— not now. He hasn’t quite worked up the nerve for that yet. 

“There we go,” Silver says at length. “Up and over, now.”

His organic hand moves to the other side of Jim’s head, gathering up his hair and urging him to tilt his neck over in the opposite direction. Jim lathers up his hands again without being asked, lifting up a cluster of soap bubbles and smoothing them out over his scalp, making everything ready for Silver’s ministrations. He has to lean over farther than before to accommodate Silver’s reach, now that he’s shaving the left side of Jim’s head with his right hand. Instead of moving the razor from the front to the back, now Silver has to move it from top to bottom, the strokes shorter and more precise as he works his way along the curve of Jim’s skull. 

He’s halfway to the back when he pauses, the tip of his blade tapping against the gold hoop in Jim’s left ear.

“Would ye look at that,” he says with a tone of sudden realization. “We’ve both got it in the same ear, Jimbo.” 

Jim twists around in time to see Silver touching the blade to his only remaining ear, displaying a gold hoop of remarkable similarity. Flustered, Jim reaches up and touches his own earring, absurdly delighted with the coincidence. 

“Lucky thing ye picked yer left, eh?” Silver winks. “I had ‘em in each, but, ah...” 

He shrugs. Jim wonders if Silver can only hear out of his left ear or if his cybernetic skull plate has any kind of auditory perception. After a beat, by unspoken agreement they resume their positions, Silver back to his work and Jim back to enjoying it.

“I wanted one in each ear,” Jim says, wanting Silver to know him. “But my mom caught me before I could get it done.” 

Silver hums with amusement. “How old were ye, then?”

“Thirteen.” 

“Ah, ye little hellion,” Silver snorts. “I was seventeen. Got one in me left and three in me right.” He nudges Jim with his elbow. “Bad investment.” 

Jim laughs. He’s warm from his head to his toes. The rum? Maybe. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s down here in Silver’s private quarters, and they’re drinking together, and sitting so close, and sharing stories about themselves, and it’s just so stupid and crazy and wonderful that he can hardly believe it’s happening. 

Silver is just finishing up the left side of his head when Jim is struck by a bolt of brazen familiarity. 

“Hey,” he says. “You didn’t lose any tattoos, did you?”

Silver barks with delight. “Oh ho, we’re getting bold now, aren’t we?” He tousles Jim’s hair with his big, broad palm. “As a matter of fact, I lost a few.” He wipes the blade and then raps it against the towel. “I had me an Andorian girl right here that ye would’ve blushed to look at.” 

Jim swallows hard, all of his bravado dissolving at the idea of a beautiful blue woman tattooed onto the skin of Silver’s thigh. Oh, he would have blushed all right— but it wouldn’t have been at the art.

Wow, now _all_ he can think about is Silver’s thighs. It’s pretty difficult not to, considering the fact that he’s currently sitting between them. Jim wipes his soapy, sweaty palms on his knees and tries to keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t blurt out anything stupid like _do you have any more tattoos?_ followed by the inevitable _can I see them?_ which would only open the floodgates for _can I touch them with my hands or maybe my mouth or maybe could I just touch you with my mouth anywhere I mean it doesn’t even have to be a tattoo or whatever I’d be cool with anything ‘cause I’ll bet you taste really good?_

He’s so wrapped up in his own head that he doesn’t even notice that Silver has gone quiet too, not until Silver breaks the silence with what almost sounds like a nervous cough. 

“Ye know, this is awful thirsty work, Jimbo,” he says. “I could use another drink.”

“Good idea,” Jim agrees, immeasurably relieved by the change in subject. 

He leans over to grab the stein, taking a hasty gulp for himself before passing it on. It’s a good thing, too— when Silver hands it back again, it’s empty. Jim still isn’t sure why Silver needs the booze, but he sure as fuck knows why _he_ does: to steel his nerves. 

“Right, then,” Silver says. “Now for the last of it.” 

Jim grits his teeth but his skin still breaks out in gooseflesh when Silver’s left hand finds its way to the back of his head for the final time. It feels so safe and comforting that Jim thinks he could lean back and use that hand as a pillow, falling asleep on the spot if he so chose, and if Silver would let him. Uncharacteristically quiet, Silver just pushes up and gathers Jim’s hair at the crown, clearing the area for Jim to put down the lather. 

_Just be cool,_ Jim begs himself. _Be cool,_ as he works up another burst of soap suds and reaches back to paint them over the remaining bristles of his hair. _Don’t say anything stupid,_ and that definitely applies to nonverbal noises, too; Jim bites down on the urge to whimper as Silver guides his head all the way down, down until his forehead rests against his knuckles on the back of the chair. Then Silver leans over him to get to work. 

Jim holds perfectly still as the razor touches skin, finding the edge of his undercut and scraping it clean all the way down to the nape. He can’t help but imagine that touch going even further, the blade replaced by Silver’s fingertips, sliding all the way down the length of his spine before tracing out over his hip to squeeze. They’ve never been close like this before. Oh, sure, they’ve been elbow to elbow in the galley, or face to face on the deck— but Jim’s never been bent over with Silver right there behind him, the convex of Jim’s back slotted up against the concave of Silver’s chest. God, he’s so big. Jim wishes he would lean in even closer, close enough to push Jim down into the chair with his weight again. They’re at least close enough that Jim can savor the feeling of Silver’s belly pressed firmly against his ass.

 _I don’t know if I could fit him inside me,_ Jim thinks, the alcohol freeing his mind to run rampant into the dark and dirty places. _He’s probably huge._ But he could take him between his thighs, definitely, cross his ankles and squeeze while Silver rutted against him from behind, huge and heavy and breathing hard. It would feel so good. Jim _knows_ it would feel good. And he knows that Silver would tell him so, that he would call Jim a _good lad_ and shower him with praise and encouragement, and sometimes Jim can’t decide if he wants Silver to pound him into the mattress or just hold him close and tell him he’s going to be all right. 

“Don’t you worry, now,” Silver murmurs, his breath hot on the back of Jim’s neck. “I won’t be clipping off this here rattail a’yours.” 

_I don’t care if you shave my entire fucking head,_ Jim thinks. _Just don’t stop._

But it’s too late. The task is done. Jim can’t see it, but he can definitely sense it, his newly-naked scalp feeling cold and exposed all the way around now that the last of the hair and lather has been cleared away. He screws his eyes shut and digs his forehead into his knuckles, hating the sudden surge of disappointment that floods up through him. Why does everything good that ever happens to him have to end so soon? Man, just for _once,_ he would love it if he could hold on to something and make it last.

He’s sure that Silver is going to take his hand away at any moment. But the seconds tick by— and that hand stays exactly where it is, cocooning the top of Jim’s head with pressure and warmth. 

_Why is he still touching me? He doesn’t have to._

Jim doesn’t dare make a sound, doesn’t dare disturb Silver from whatever stupor has caused him to leave his hand all tangled up in Jim’s hair like this. Ten seconds— twenty— Jim’s eyes are stinging and he’s trying not to breathe at all, subsisting on this feeling alone, the weight, the heat. He can feel Silver breathing against his back, his broad barrel chest pushing against him and then pulling back again, slow and measured. 

Jim’s own breath hitches in his throat when Silver’s hand stirs. It’s just the slightest movement, slight but unmistakable; Silver’s thumb rubs a quick, curt circle. Almost a caress. It resonates through Jim’s body like a shockwave, stunning him all the way down to his toes. 

_Whirr, click_ — and then Silver’s cybernetic hand comes down on Jim’s shoulder, bracing him against the back of the chair. Jim’s heartbeat roars in his ears. Silver is leaning down again. He’s so close, _he’s so close_ — and Jim _must_ be crazy, because for a second there he almost thinks that Silver is smelling his hair. 

All at once Silver jerks his hands away from him, then hastily brings the cybernetic one down again to give Jim a rousing slap on the back. 

“And there ye have it!” he says, his voice strained. “Good as new, Jimbo, what’d I tell ye?”

Dazed, Jim reaches back and runs his fingertips over his freshly-shorn skin. The shave is clean and smooth, not a single stray hair left behind out of place. Silver has a fine eye for detail. Jim would stand up but he’s not sure his legs could support him right now. 

“Thanks,” he says distantly.

He can’t stop touching his head like an idiot. That’s where Silver touched him. Silver did this. Silver noticed that his hair was growing out, Silver offered to shave it, and Silver did. Quite abruptly Jim realizes that he never had to ask for any of it. Silver offered it freely and gladly, and all Jim had to do was accept. 

There’s a moment of total brainfreeze when Silver reaches his arms around him— but he’s just grabbing the back of the chair and pushing it forward, sliding Jim a safe distance away from the bed before he quickly sits back again, creating an empty, aching space between them. 

“That ought to hold ye for a while,” Silver continues, almost rambling. “Anyhow it’ll be a week at least till ye start to get yer fuzz again, so, plenty o’ time.” 

Now that there’s some distance, Jim is finally able to coax some feeling into his legs. He clambers unsteadily to his feet. Must be the rum. Speak of the devil— with a heavy sigh, Silver reaches under his bed and hauls out a definitely-not-regulation jug. When he tugs out the cork, Jim can smell the booze from where he’s standing. Silver pours himself another mugful with the air of a man who just performed a triple bypass aortic valve replacement and needs a stiff drink to calm down. He doesn’t even think to offer any to Jim, just belts back two big gulps of grog before thumping a fist over his heart and exhaling with relief. 

When Jim shifts his weight uncertainly, Silver finally glances up and gives him a hazy smile. 

“Ah, ye look fine, Jim. Just fine.” 

Jim rakes his fingers through the length of his hair, trying to look casual while his heart spirals down in a hopeless tailspin. 

“Thanks,” he says again. “I’ll, uh... I mean, if you ever... if you need me to, uh, return the favor...”

Silver gives a self-deprecating snort. “That’s mighty generous, lad, but an old space dog like me’s used to a shaggy coat.” 

Jim nods hurriedly. “Sure, sure. No, I get it.”

He hesitates. The words are on the tip of his tongue. It’s the rum that shoves them over the edge and out into the air. 

“I’m good with machines. I could help with maintenance.” He gestures nervously up and down the length of Silver’s right side. “You know, with your, uh, your rig. Get in the back, degrease the gears, make sure all the bolts are tight.” 

For a minute there Silver looks so flabbergasted that Jim wonders if he’s just stepped _way_ over the line. Shit, is there like, some kind of cyborg etiquette that he just majorly screwed up? Maybe it’s embarrassing. Maybe it’s rude. Did Jim just shove his whole fucking foot in his mouth? Fuck. _Fuck._

Then Silver rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the floor, his expression flustered but undeniably pleased. 

“That’d be, ah...” He clears his throat. “That’d be grand, Jimbo. Just grand.” 

Jim doesn’t know how to describe the intense rush of relief, anticipation, fear, and excitement that temporarily short circuits his brain. _Is this what it’s supposed to feel like when somebody agrees to go on a date with you?_ Jim never had any interest in asking anybody out on a date before, but all of a sudden he’s got this old cyborg agreeing to let him run a system check on his rig and his stomach is doing flip flops. What the fuck even is his life anymore. 

“I better go,” he says lamely, before he can say something else that might ruin everything. 

“Oh?” Silver frowns, a split-second of disappointment before he quickly shakes the look off his face. “I, uh, I suppose ye’re right, then. Ye’ve got an early watch tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Jim affirms. “I do.” He’d totally forgotten. 

A beat of anxious, uncomfortable silence. Then Jim touches the side of his head, mumbles “really, thanks,” and bolts out the door like his life depends on it. He even yanks it shut behind him so there’s no risk of him accidentally making eye contact with Silver, which would freeze Jim permanently in place, never to turn away from him again. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s just leaning against the door and trying to keep his heart from actually exploding. Then he hears it— a deep, agonized groan, muffled but unmissable. On impulse he leans in and presses his ear against the creaking wood. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Silver’s voice laments from within. “Ye’ve got it bad, Johnny boy, make no mistake about that.” 

The sound of the jug being uncorked again serves as the exclamation mark. Jim doesn’t need to hear anymore. He doesn’t need to guess why Silver was drinking anymore. 

All he needs is to find a storage locker he can shut himself into so he can furiously masturbate in peace. 

 

 

 

_____________end.


End file.
